


Epiphanies

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Friendship/Love, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Romance, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 14:31:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a brief patch of time during sixth year, when all bets were off. But it changed everything.</p><p>Written for the 2013 DramioneLove Valentine's Fest on LJ. My prompt: “I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” - Maya Angelou</p><p>This story can definitely be read as a stand-alone, but it also works well as a follow-up to my story, "The Gift." It focuses on the two months immediately following the conclusion of that story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epiphanies

“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”  
\- Maya Angelou

 

Prologue

late December 1996  
sixth year

 

She hadn’t known quite what to make of that fleeting half smile of his. He’d caught her eye from across the room just as a large throng of students pressed into the entryway of Hogwarts Castle, preparing to depart for the winter holidays. Everyone was busy saying their goodbyes and moving off towards the thestral-driven coaches, dragging trunks and smaller pieces of luggage. Hermione had looked forward eagerly to the three weeks they’d be at home with their families. But now, there was something else, something she hadn’t counted on. He’d smiled at her ever so briefly – just the barest hint of a smile – and in that moment, his face had been transformed. Then, after an almost imperceptible nod, he’d turned away again, laughing at something his friends had said and making his way outside with them through the massive oaken doors. The moment had passed, bursting like a fragile bubble into the ether as if it had never happened at all. 

Except that it had. 

She hadn’t known quite what to make of it, but it had warmed her, and she would find herself returning to those few seconds – and what had happened to precipitate them – many times in the next three weeks.

*

mid-January 1997

 

The spring term had begun, and life in the ancient castle had settled back into its usual routines with a certain comfortable predictability. NEWTs were just over a year away, Hermione reminded herself, and there was so much to do. She threw herself into her studies with renewed dedication. 

Academics were not the only thing preoccupying her, however. There was a mystery that needed solving, and as time passed without any satisfactory answers, the mystery grew and so did its power to distract her. 

The mystery was Malfoy. Why had he been so desperate to cheat off her for their most recent potions assignment that he’d actually pursued her into the densely forested grounds surrounding the castle the day she'd gone to gather specimens, with the calculated objective of stealing her work? He’d very nearly succeeded, too; the only thing stopping him in the end had been his own incredibly foolhardy, bravado-fuelled impulse to eat a handful of the yew berries she'd collected, almost poisoning himself to death in the process. 

At the time, she’d chalked up his behaviour to the Machiavellian tactics so typical of Malfoy: If there’s something you want and you can get it by bullying somebody else and simply taking it, then the ends justify the means, no matter how low or slimy your actions, and no looking back. He’d needed her homework, and he’d gone after her for it as if his life had depended on it. But it was just homework, after all, and for Snape, too. His own head of house, for gosh sakes! The whole school knew only too well that Snape favoured Malfoy. If he’d bollocksed up the conifer assignment, chances were he’d have got no more than a slap on the wrist.

Come to think of it, she remembered now, this wasn’t the first time he’d tried something like this. Rumour had it that he’d been in hot water for some time with both Snape and Dumbledore for falling behind in his class work, and that he’d cajoled, wheedled, leaned on, or otherwise pressured several others for help prior to Hermione, in order to make the work up. It was a fairly safe assumption that Snape had covered for him with the headmaster after the near-poisoning, but there was a pattern here. And for every pattern, Hermione’s logical mind insisted, there was a reason, a root cause. What was behind such reckless behaviour? His near-death experience with her was merely the icing on what seemed an ever more dangerous and risky cake.

 _Why_ , Hermione wondered, was he falling further and further behind in his studies in the first place – _and_ looking increasingly haggard and gaunt? Not surprisingly, he’d looked like total crap after surviving the yew berries, but in actual fact, he’d begun losing weight, his pallor growing washed out and grey, well before what happened in the forest. 

_Why?_

Something very bad was happening to Draco Malfoy, Hermione was certain of it. Remembering that fleeting smile of his, she resolved to find out what it was. 

Over the next couple of weeks, circumstances seemed destined to prevent that happening. At the start of term right after the summer holidays, Draco had frequented all the usual common areas in the castle: classrooms, the Great Hall at mealtimes, the library, and the maze of corridors between classes. His cocky laugh could always be heard above the fray, his blond head a bright beacon as he made his way through the clusters of students crowding the hallways, and a cool, self-satisfied smile lifting the corners of his mouth. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, that had changed. Now, no matter where she went, he was noticeably absent. Eventually, she found herself actively watching for him, her eyes peeled anxiously and her mouth tightening in an unconscious frown as time and again, he was nowhere to be seen. 

Could he be in the hospital wing, stricken with a mysterious illness? Merlin, maybe he was suffering some sort of dreadful, lingering after-effects of the yew berry disaster! 

Or had he left school altogether? She hadn’t told on him, feeling that in nearly dying, he’d suffered enough already. And he’d seemed genuinely remorseful, even if only in his delirium. (In fact, now that she thought back on it, his rambling and rather cryptic apology had seemed to hint at something more than what he'd just tried to do to her.) But perhaps Dumbledore had somehow found out anyway and had decided to expel him. 

All right, she told herself, that was a bit ridiculous. Dumbledore would never do such a thing. If anything, he would fashion a punishment that would give Malfoy the chance to make up for what he’d done and learn from the experience in the process.

Nothing of the sort had happened. 

Draco remained elusive and Hermione grew increasingly frustrated and bewildered. The fact that he seemed to have vanished into thin air only served to sharpen both her curiosity and a gut feeling that somehow, he needed help. 

It was close to eleven on a Thursday night at the end of January, and Madam Pince had already closed the library’s doors to any late arrivals. Those already inside the dusty, high-ceilinged room would be permitted to stay until midnight, though as it happened, virtually everyone else had cleared off by this time. Only Hermione remained, sequestered in a remote corner and surrounded on all sides by piles of large, heavy books.

The second hand on the large wall clock moved stiffly, its ticking as loud and mechanical as a metronome. Apart from that, the quiet was almost unearthly. Hermione turned a page in the massive, old volume in which she was immersed, and the old parchment crackled, sounding like a small shot. Just then, there was another sound, much softer and more muffled, as if someone were trying to stifle it. It sounded, in fact, like a low hiccough mixed with a sigh, and it appeared to have come from the other side of the tall shelves immediately behind her table. 

A moment passed, and then... there it was again, abrupt and half-swallowed. Cautiously, Hermione stood, moving as silently as she could and then peering around the side of the bookshelf. What she saw caused her heart to leap into her throat.

It was Draco. He sat hunched forward, his head pillowed by his arms. That strange sound broke the silence again, and now she realised that it was not a hiccough at all. It was a quiet sob.

Hermione froze. For a long moment, she wondered if maybe she shouldn’t simply back away as quietly as she’d come and disappear. After all, she had no business butting in when he was so clearly upset. He’d have her head for intruding on such a private moment, and she wouldn’t blame him a bit.

Several seconds passed, and yet she found herself rooted to the spot, unable to leave. And then it was too late. As if he’d felt her eyes on him, Draco raised his head from his arms, one cheek flushed and creased with the imprint of his sleeve and his eyes reddened, and looked up at her. Embarrassed, he dashed away the traces of tears with rough impatience.

“Get out.”

Hermione’s chin came up defiantly. Pursing her lips, she took a deep breath. 

“No.”

Apparently, her reply wasn’t what he’d expected, for he sat back, momentarily bemused. And then he gave a defeated little shrug, gesturing half-heartedly towards the empty seat next to him. 

Hermione sat down, folded her hands on the table, and waited quietly. 

“I’m not talking.” There was a dull finality in his tone that brooked no arguments.

“All right,” she said softly. “But… do you mind if I study here? The light’s a bit better on this side.”

This was clearly nonsensical as the lamps were magically maintained, the quality of light emitted by each one identical to all the others in the library. But Draco merely raised his shoulders in another shrug. Before he had a chance to change his mind, she swiftly gathered up her belongings and moved them to his table, settling herself and opening her book once again.

There was dead silence for what seemed like a very long time. At last, a surreptitious glance in his direction revealed that he’d calmed himself and was now gazing intently at the open book before him. A second glance five minutes later told her that neither the page nor his gaze had shifted. In fact, it appeared to be fixed on a spot in the centre of the page where there was a small, brown, strawberry-shaped stain.

“Homework?” Hermione asked brightly, gesturing towards the book he was quite obviously ignoring.

He raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Yeah.”

A monosyllabic dead end. It had been a futile question anyway. She knew she wouldn’t get any sort of real answer. Hermione bit her lip in frustration and sat back to think. This was going nowhere. She wasn’t getting her own work done, but she wasn’t getting anywhere with Malfoy either.

Sighing, she turned back to her own books, and for a time, her work pulled her in, thoroughly absorbing her thoughts as the silence closed heavily around her.

_Tick, tick, tick..._

“Congratulations.”

Startled, Hermione looked up. “What?”

“I said congratulations, Granger. You actually managed to stay quiet for ten whole minutes.”

He was smiling lazily at her now. Was this an invitation to have an exchange? She decided to test the waters by _not_ biting.

A simple “Mmm” and a nod, and she returned her attention to her book, raising her eyes only in the most fleeting of glances at him.

And then she waited. It didn’t take long.

“What’s that you’re working on, anyway?”

“What, this?” She pointed at the open book before her.

“No, that book over there, the one you’re _not_ reading. Yeah, of course, that. What else?”

“Oh!” She gave a light, little laugh. “Sorry! It’s for Ancient Runes. That translation assignment we’ve got. You know, the one that’s due next Friday.”

“Is it? Fuck yeah. I remember now. Stupid waste of time.”

“How can you say that with NEWTs coming up next year? We need all the practice we can get!”

Draco turned in his seat to face her directly, an incredulous sneer on his face. “Do you seriously believe,” he began slowly, “that NEWTs are what we’re going to be worrying about next year? Even you can’t be that naïve.”

“What should I believe, then?” she asked softly. “Malfoy, tell me. Please.”

The question appeared to be tempting, for Draco opened his mouth to reply, only to hesitate and then shut it again in a firm, tight line. “Forget I said anything,” he told her in a low growl. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

He stood abruptly, shutting his books with a bang that sent up a small cloud of dust from their venerable pages and echoed in the deep stillness of the cavernous room. “Sod this shit. I’m going to bed.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and strode away, vanishing into the shadowy outer recesses of the library. In the distance, Hermione could hear the large, heavy doors closing behind him.

Expelling a frustrated sigh, she rose too, collecting her belongings and wearily stuffing them into her satchel. If she had suspected earlier that something was wrong, now she was certain of it. Harry was already convinced that Malfoy was up to something. And now, there were these cryptic and rather alarming signals from Malfoy himself. What had he been hinting at? Even more disturbing, why had he been crying? Hermione trudged back to her room, her satchel heavy on her shoulder, strangely disconcerted and haunted by questions that pricked at her, refusing to relent.

*

Two nights later, Hermione wandered back into the library at half past nine.  
   
She’d already done most of her homework for the next day’s classes, disappearing into her room directly after dinner while everyone else was still in the common room, relaxing. Lavender and Parvati had tumbled into their shared quarters just after nine o’clock, laughing and joking, and suddenly, their chatter and giggles seemed to rise up around her, filling her head and drowning out all coherent thought, making the prospect of productive work virtually impossible. The only quiet place would be the library, preferably her usual, remote corner. Slipping her books, a novel she’d been dipping into, and an apple she’d filched from dinner into her satchel, she excused herself and fled in search of some peace and quiet.

She hadn’t been there long, but the words of the novel had already woven their spell in the dense quiet of the lofty, old room. When somebody quietly cleared his throat, she jumped.

Draco stood there, an enigmatic little smile curling one corner of his mouth. He leaned over just far enough to get a look at what she’d been reading and then folded his arms.

“Not actually studying for once, I see.” He clucked his tongue. “You’re slipping, Granger. What’s the matter? Gryffindor common room not to your liking tonight?”

Hermione pursed her lips defensively, but then instinct nudged her to relent. “As a matter of fact,” she admitted after a moment, “it _was_ just a bit... distracting there.”

Now that enigmatic little smile became a full-blown, knowing smirk. And then, to Hermione’s surprise, Draco pulled out a chair and sat down. It hadn’t occurred to him, apparently, that perhaps she’d come to the library to avoid _all_ distractions, including any she’d find within its walls. The humour of the situation pricked keenly at her, but she managed to stifle the tiny smirk tugging at her own lips. Perhaps opportunity had just knocked.

“Where are your books?” she asked offhandedly. “Because I’m here to read, you know. Not talk.”

Draco lifted an elegant eyebrow, got to his feet again, and walked away. Watching his retreating figure, Hermione cursed herself for miscalculating. Surely, he’d taken her words as a hint to leave. When the chair next to her scraped briefly against the floor a couple of minutes later, she looked up, surprised, but carefully said nothing. The occasional sidelong glance told her that he was making a stab at a homework assignment, one she’d long since finished.

They sat together in companionable silence for the better part of half an hour before Draco spoke again.

“Bloody Ancient Runes. How d’you stand it?” he grumbled, throwing his quill down in frustration.

“I like it, actually,” Hermione remarked placidly and was immediately rewarded with a snort of derisive laughter as Draco shook his head. 

“No, really, it’s fun,” she insisted, warming to the subject and to the challenge of changing his mind now that she’d got his attention. “Like a puzzle, see. Except it’s language in code. I like having to put it all together and work out the message.”

“Fun!” he scoffed. “You’re as barmy as ever. I mean, honestly, who really gives a rat’s arse about an old, forgotten language? Besides you and Professor Babbling, that is. Fucking pointless, isn’t it. When are we ever going to actually use this shit? It’s just a load of obsolete chicken scratches.”

“You never know!” Hermione bristled, feeling suddenly and rather oddly on the defensive. “And besides, don’t you think it’s important that we understand our history? These symbols are how witches and wizards communicated with each other centuries ago. It’s the language of the shamans, of all the old rituals, the language of the oldest magic itself. I should think,” she added pointedly, “that as a pure-blood, you, of all people, would understand the value of these so-called ‘chicken scratches.’”

“My father…” he began and then stopped himself, sighing wearily. “Whatever. Fuck it. It doesn’t matter. I have to do this or I’m going to fail the class. Thanks for the pep talk, Granger. Don’t let me keep you.” And with a brief wave of his hand, he shifted his gaze back to the open book and parchment in front of him, taking up his quill again.

Odd. Five weeks earlier, he’d been so desperate to get hold of her work that he’d attempted to steal it right out from under her, after all other forms of coercion had failed and she’d flatly refused to do the assignment for him or let him copy her work. Now, however, far from resorting to any of that, he’d dismissed her and rather abruptly too, seeming to withdraw into himself. There was the same air of desperation, only this time, it was quieter, deeper, less overt – turned inward, somehow.

“Would you… “ she began hesitantly, not at all sure why she was about to say what came next. “Would you like some help with that?”

Draco stared at her for a full thirty seconds, his eyes widening, and then one brow rose, accompanied by a sceptical half smile. 

“Right. Ha ha. What are you playing at, Granger? You only help your friends. Tell me, am I suddenly in that fortunate company? You hardly showed such generosity with that bloody potions assignment.”

“Well,” Hermione retorted, “that’s because you were so sneaky and underhanded and... and _entitled!_ This is... well, this is different. Anyway, _do_ you want some help or not?”

It didn’t take long for him to make up his mind. By way of reply, he moved his chair several inches closer to Hermione’s and waited. When she made no further move to begin, he looked at her, momentarily confused. 

Hermione arched an expectant eyebrow.

 _Oh._ He rolled his eyes. “Thanks.” 

Better. Satisfied, Hermione smiled, pulling his Ancient Runes text a bit closer. Without thinking, both of them bent over it, their heads nearly touching, as she pointed at a symbol at the top of the page.

An hour later, the assignment was complete. It had been an intense sixty minutes, draining both of them, and now they sat back, ready for a break. Hermione reached into her bag, pulling out the apple she’d brought, and then noticed Draco eyeing it hungrily.

Without a word, she took up her wand.

“ _Dividere!_ ”

The apple split itself neatly in half, and she nodded towards Draco to help himself. They sat munching for a few minutes, and then he leaned back, regarding Hermione thoughtfully. 

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“You mean the apple? Or the homework?”

“The homework. Well... both, I reckon. You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

“So... why did you, then?”

Hermione shrugged slightly, an unwanted blush beginning to warm her face. “I don’t know... You needed the help. Do I have to have a reason?”

“I think you do, yeah. Why are you being nice to me? Especially after what I did.”

Suddenly, his grey eyes darkened as the possibility of a particularly mortifying scenario hit home. “You feel sorry for me, is that it?”

Turning away, his mouth a grim, angry line, he stared down at the books still open before them on the table.

“No! No, I’m just... I... Something’s wrong, Draco. With you. I know it. And it’s scaring me, to be honest.”

His eyes grew wide for a moment. “ _You’re_ scared...” Then he let out a low bark of laughter, contemptuous and harsh. “Listen, Granger, there’s nothing’s wrong with me. Nothing that getting away from this place wouldn’t cure. So just get that idea out of your overworked little brain. And… and stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, will you?”

“Fine!” Hermione fumed, standing up so abruptly that she nearly knocked over her inkwell. “I’ll just do that! So sorry to have interfered! It won’t happen again!”

Sweeping all her belongings into her satchel completely helter-skelter, she yanked it off the table and onto her shoulder and marched out of the library without a backward glance.

Draco watched her go but made no move to stop her, his expression rigidly impassive until she'd disappeared through the doors. Then, it seemed to crumble. Swiftly, he covered his face with both hands.

*

7 February  
Friday evening  
the library

 

“No hot date tonight, then?”

Hermione looked up from the essay she’d been working on. Draco was back, and it really did seem as if he were seeking her out now. 

She hadn’t seen him except fleetingly in the last five days, but if it were possible for him to look even more drained and chalky, he did. It seemed he was hardly ever in the Great Hall for meals anymore, and skipping them had wasted his frame; even the skin of his face was drawn tightly over bones that seemed too prominent. And he looked exhausted. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and he had the drawn, listless look of somebody who hadn’t slept in days. He stood before her now, his cocky smirk a mere shadow of its usual self. 

The comment smacked of his usual snark, however. Rolling her eyes, Hermione gestured in the direction of the empty seat beside her, and Draco dropped into it. 

“Oh, I do, actually,” she sighed, making a face. “I’ve got a very hot date. With a Venomous Tentacula. Or rather, its botanical origins, cross-breeding history, and –”

“A long list of other murderous plants that share the same properties. Yeah, I remember.” Draco shuddered briefly, recalling the ferocious grip the plant had exerted around his neck during their most recent Herbology lesson. Blaise’s quick thinking was the only thing that had stopped him being strangled that morning. “Sprout wants the essay on Monday, yeah?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes, and I thought I might as well get it over before the weekend.”

Draco chuckled. “You mean you don’t actually prefer to hole up here with Madam Pince all weekend?”

It was the first time she’d ever heard him laugh in such a relaxed, unselfconscious way, and it was a pleasing sound, good-natured and without malice – so different from the sneering sarcasm and meanness she normally associated with his laughter. Hermione found that she was grinning despite herself. 

“As a matter of fact,” she replied airily, “there are loads of things I like doing at the weekend that have nothing whatsoever to do with studying.”

Draco leaned in closer, his mouth twitching. “Like what, pray tell? I’m all ears.”

“Oh, well, you know... I like taking walks. And listening to music. And dancing. And I like to read.” 

At this, there was a particularly loud snort from Draco, followed by an annoyed “Sshh!” from Madam Pince, who looked up from her desk and glared at them. 

“I love being outside when the weather’s nice,” she soldiered on gamely, dropping her voice to a near-whisper. “And going to Hogsmeade when we’re allowed. Next weekend, for instance. It’s Valent–” Her voice trailed off in sudden, acute embarrassment and she looked down at her hands. “So, yeah... like I said... lots of things...”

Draco leaned back in his chair, unmindful that it was now tilting precariously, and smiled languidly. “Well, well. A true Renaissance woman. I’m impressed.” He regarded her speculatively, his gaze travelling from her face down the length of her body and back up again. “Dancing, eh?” 

“Yes, why not?” Hermione replied, her chin up. Was it so difficult to imagine that she might actually enjoy doing something that wasn’t strictly cerebral? “It’s fun. Especially when you’ve got somebody to do it with.” 

Then she remembered, and her face fell just a little bit.

Draco folded his arms, fixing her with a shrewd gaze. “What’s the matter, Granger? Your dance partner desert you?”

In essence, that was precisely what had happened over the last few months. Much to Hermione’s chagrin, she’d found herself far more deeply hurt than she’d ever imagined she could be, having to watch Ron fawn all over Lavender in such a sickening manner, and just as bad, having to witness Lavender’s equally repulsive attentions to him. 

She’d looked forward to Valentine’s Day for months, certain that this year, finally, she’d share it with the boy for whom she’d secretly carried a torch for ages. Now that dream had been dashed, and Ron had done a bang-up job of it. Valentine’s weekend in Hogsmeade would be nothing special. In fact, given the reality of her situation, the prospect was looking distinctly unappealing now.

Setting her mouth grimly, Hermione looked away, unwilling to let Draco see just how keenly she’d felt the barb buried in his last question. The silence that now hung between them seemed deeply awkward suddenly.

A few minutes later, Draco himself broke it.

“Weasley’s an idiot.” 

“What?” Hermione’s head snapped up and she stared at Draco. 

“You heard me.” A faint flush washed over his pale cheeks as she continued to stare. “Stupid git dumped you, didn’t he.” The question came out more like an accusation, a challenge.

Hermione’s mouth fell open just a little bit. Treacherous tears now threatened to fall, and she blinked several times, willing them away.

“The whole school knows,” he went on matter-of-factly. “Hard to miss, him carrying on with that Brown slag the way he’s been doing.”

She dropped her eyes, swallowing hard to rid herself of the rather large lump that had formed in her throat. Tears were close to spilling despite her efforts to stop them, and she brushed roughly at her eyes with the back of one hand.

“Did you a favour, really, didn’t he,” he added offhandedly. “Saved you dying of utter boredom.”

“Gosh, thanks, Malfoy,” Hermione muttered, giving her eyes one final, perfunctory swipe. “I’m so grateful you’ve pointed that out. Excuse me, please. I’ve got work to do.”

Turning her attention back to her books, she made a great show of ignoring him. After a moment, he got to his feet, slung his book bag over his shoulder, and found a seat a couple of tables away. Ten minutes passed as both of them busied themselves with their assignments, neither raising their eyes from the pages before them. 

_Tick, tick, tick…_

Not looking was difficult. Curiosity was beginning to eat away at her. Was he still there? And why did she even care one way or the other? And why had he said that Ron was an idiot? Of course, she knew perfectly well that Malfoy felt that way. He’d never made any secret of it, and there was no reason to believe he’d ever change his mind. But this… this was different somehow. It had almost seemed as if… no, that was silly, wasn’t it? He couldn’t have meant… could he?

Carefully, Hermione raised her eyes just enough to take a very quick, furtive glance in Draco’s general direction. He was still there, apparently hard at work. And then, feeling her eyes on him, he looked up. His lips moved briefly, and Hermione’s eyes widened in surprise. Had he just mouthed the word “sorry”?

“Okay,” she mouthed back after a moment’s pause. She wasn’t sure that it actually was, but then, she wasn’t sure of a lot of things at the moment.

He quirked a questioning eyebrow at that, and she nodded. With a tiny, fleeting smile – smugly triumphant? relieved? – he gathered his things and returned to Hermione’s table.

For a time, the pair worked silently, the awkwardness that had accompanied Draco’s return beginning to ease gradually. Finally, she had to ask.

“Draco,” she began tentatively.

“Hmm?” His eyes remained on the book open before him.

“I was just wondering... why did you call Ron an idiot?”

Without shifting his gaze, he replied, “Because, you silly cow, he is one. I should think that’s obvious. Well, maybe not to you.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Now Draco raised his eyes from the pages he’d been studying. Suddenly, he looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I just think…” He hedged for a moment. “I mean, look what he’s got now. When he might’ve had…”

 _Me. When he might’ve had me._ “Oh,” she said very softly.

“Yeah. Well. I’m not surprised. Like I said. He’s an idiot.”

Colouring faintly, he turned his attention back to the work at hand, his quill making rapid scratching sounds on the parchment. It was obvious that he was done talking. With a small sigh, Hermione went back to her essay, Draco’s surprising words still echoing in her head. 

Three quarters of an hour passed. It wasn’t until she happened to glance at what he’d been so busy about that Hermione realised he hadn’t been working at all. Where there should have been at least a foot of filled parchment, there were only doodles and ink splotches. 

Her sharp intake of breath caused him to look up, and then he shrugged.

“But… but I thought…” she spluttered.

“You thought what? That this crap matters to me as much as it does to you?”

“Yes, of course! Doesn’t it?”

“Why should it? What’s the point? None of it’s going to matter a damn when…” He stopped himself abruptly, swallowing hard. A small muscle fluttered in his clenched jaw.

“When _what_ , Malfoy? Please! Tell me!” Hermione found herself begging now, but she didn’t care.

“Can’t.”

“You mean you won’t, isn’t that right?” Hermione dropped her voice to a whisper, as Madam Pince shot a disapproving glance in their direction. 

All of a sudden, Draco seemed to visibly deflate. “You don’t want to know. Not really. Trust me.” Slumping down in his seat, looking beaten and emptied, he covered his eyes with one hand.

“You’re in some sort of trouble, aren’t you! That’s it, isn’t it!” Hermione drew her chair closer to his. “Please tell me, Draco! Maybe I can help.”

“You can’t. Nobody can,” he muttered, half to himself, it seemed. Suddenly, he looked up at her, his gaze clear-eyed and unwavering. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” she faltered, confused.

“Being so nice to me, after… after the way I’ve treated you. Hell, you saved my life. Why’d you do it, Hermione?” he repeated. 

“I had to, didn’t I,” she replied slowly. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Draco shook his head. “There’s always a choice. I don’t understand you.” 

“I couldn’t just let you die, could I? Is _that_ what you’re suggesting?” She could feel his desperation reaching out and clutching at her. The bleak resignation and despair in his eyes were appalling.

“Maybe I should have died.” He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Everybody would be better off.”

“What are you talking about?” Hermione hissed, feeling as if she were standing outside herself as this maddeningly cryptic conversation unfolded, unable to make sense of any of it. “What’s happened? _What have you done?_ ”

“I started something, and now I have to finish it, that’s all. I’ve got no choice.”

“There’s always a choice! You said so yourself!”

He shook his head dispiritedly. “Not for me. Not this time. It’s too late.” 

Truly alarmed now, Hermione gripped his arm. “Look, please, whatever it is, there’s got to be another way! We... we can go to Dumbledore! No matter what it is, he’ll listen! I know he will!”

Draco’s face twisted strangely and then he began to laugh, eventually leaning forward and burying his face in his arms. His shoulders shook, but before long, it was apparent that he was no longer laughing.

On impulse, Hermione reached out, her hand hovering hesitantly above his back. He was still trembling slightly as her palm came to rest between his shoulder blades.

“I’m glad you didn’t die,” she said softly. “Truly.” 

At her words, he raised his head and gazed at her in wonderment. His eyes, reddened and watery, remained fixed on her for what felt like ages, yet he continued to stare at her as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Then he edged a bit closer.

“Can I… can I kiss you?”

Time seemed to slow, and Hermione remembered another kiss. He’d given her that one as well not two months before, in the forest, after it was clear that the antidote she’d made had worked and the imminent danger of dying had passed. At the time, she’d been convinced that he was still half-delirious from the effects of the poison and not fully aware of what he was doing. Nevertheless, the kiss had been sweet, albeit fleeting, pressed to the corner of her mouth as light and delicate as a moth’s wings and followed by his whispered “thank you.” She hadn’t forgotten.

Her heart hammering in her throat, Hermione swallowed hard and nodded. She could feel a flush creeping over her cheeks, and she held her breath, willing herself to remain calm.

Draco leaned in closer, so that she could feel his breath warming her face. It smelled pleasantly of mint. He hesitated, she closed her eyes, and then his mouth was on hers, his lips soft and full and surprisingly warm for someone so awfully pale. The kiss seemed to go on and on; he explored her mouth slowly, experimentally, as if he were drinking her in and never quite getting his fill, as if he were trying to memorise the very feel and taste of her. At last, he broke away, smiling faintly as he ran a light finger down her cheek. Her eyes were still closed when she heard two quiet words.

“Thank you.” 

By the time she opened them a moment later, he’d gone.

*

14 February  
Friday evening  
Valentine’s Day

 

The dreaded day arrived, and just as Hermione had expected, the school was awash in a sea of crimson hearts and ribbons, and a lot of silly girls giggling over the notes, cards, and boxed sweets they’d received from boyfriends or secret admirers or simply from boys on the pull who thought to avail themselves of the romance attached to the day in order to get some. However the pairing-off broke down, though, just about everyone had found somebody to be with for the evening. Or so it seemed to Hermione, at least. Unlike the entire rest of the school, she had the dismal prospect of spending the night alone to look forward to. The only other option – being little Colin Creevey’s date – wasn’t an option at all. No self-respecting sixth-year girl of seventeen would entertain such a pathetic and embarrassing scenario. What she needed was a place into which she could just disappear until this stupid day was all over.

Especially as Ron and Lavender seemed to be virtually everywhere she looked, hanging on each other’s words, cooing at each other, entwined like a pair of pretzels, and disappearing into small, shadowy niches, where, no doubt, they were happily getting up to things she didn’t even want to imagine. It was exactly what she’d anticipated, and she was ready for it – well, mostly – but having it right there in her face made it that much harder. She _really_ needed to get away.

But where?

Her room was no refuge, as it turned out. Directly after dinner, Lavender was there, primping for her date with Ron and giving Parvati a blow-by-blow account of everything the two of them would be doing that evening and all the romantic things Ron had planned – or rather, that _she_ had planned _for_ him. Five minutes of listening to that and Hermione had gathered up her things and fled.

Somehow, it was fitting that she should find herself following the very familiar route to the library that she’d so often trod, especially these last several weeks. She’d as good as worn her own private path in the old, stone flooring between Gryffindor Tower and the library’s ponderous, oak doors. Hermione’s mouth twisted wryly as she considered the rather pathetic irony of spending tonight, of all nights, here. Well, she supposed, she had reaped what she’d sown. She’d known for a long time that she was far too bookish and serious for most boys. 

She hadn’t even seen Malfoy in the last week, not since That Night. The kiss had surprised and confused her, not least because she’d let him do it. But the truth was, she’d wanted him to, there was no getting around that. Furthermore, the kiss had been rather lovely. More than lovely, actually. It had been thrilling. And ever since, she’d found herself watching for him everywhere, but most especially in the library. Curiosity and concerns, now even keener and more troubling than before, had been joined by a third factor that was equally powerful, something she hadn’t counted on.

But he hadn’t turned up, not once. Probably regretted he’d done it. Regretted it and was now making himself scarce to avoid the inevitable embarrassment. That must be it.

Oh gods. There must be a special circle in Hell devoted to the mortifications of girls who’d made fools of themselves over some bloke. In her case, she’d already done it in a rather grand manner with Ron, and now, again, with Draco, a boy about whom she really should have known better. For all she knew, he might be cringing at this very moment, realizing he’d actually done something so intimate with _her_ , of all people. Imagining such a scenario roused a momentary flicker of anger, but it died back quickly. Getting upset would require more energy than the whole thing was worth. It had happened and now it was over, she told herself. The fragile, new friendship they’d been forging in the last several weeks was probably in tatters now, and all because there had been something else in the mix, and impulsively, they’d acted on it. Far better if he’d never kissed her at all, she thought glumly. Things were never the same once _that_ intruded on a friendship. It had been nice, seeing another side of Draco. Nice whilst it had lasted, that is. 

Predictably, the library was completely empty when Hermione arrived. She pushed open the heavy doors and slipped inside, scanning the room quickly and seeing only Madam Pince at her desk. Apparently, she was having a less than brilliant Valentine’s Day herself. 

Her usual table was there waiting for her, and with a small, resigned sigh, she headed towards it. She had her book and a bar of really good dark chocolate left over from a parcel her mother had sent; there were worse companions for an evening, she supposed.

Just as she was nearing the table, the sound of a throat being cleared broke the weighty silence. 

“Young lady!”

Hermione turned to find Madam Pince beckoning to her. Surprised, she touched two fingertips to her chest and mouthed, “Me?” 

“Yes, of course, Miss Granger. Please come to my desk. I have something for you.”

Pulling open a drawer, Irma Pince withdrew a smallish, gold box tied with a green satin ribbon and held it out to Hermione, smiling pleasantly. “Here you are, then. This was left for you.”

Dumbfounded, Hermione looked first at the box and then back at the librarian. “But… I don’t understand. Who left it?” 

Madam Pince’s smile deepened and turned rather smug, strangely reminiscent, Hermione found herself thinking, of the Cheshire Cat. “I’m not at liberty to say, my dear. He was quite specific about that. Why don’t you open it? Perhaps there will be a clue inside.”

Shaking her head in wonderment and surprise, Hermione took the box and seated herself. Carefully, she pulled at one end of the ribbon, unraveling it so that it slipped off the box. Then, her fingers trembling ever so slightly, she lifted the lid and set it aside, along with the layer of cotton wool that sat atop the box’s contents.

What she saw nesting like a small jewel on a second layer of cotton wool took her breath away, and she knew instantly who it was from.

It was a Scots Pine cone, a female, beautifully formed and at the peak of maturity, framed by a spray of yew foliage and a small cluster of bright, red berries. The cone resembled nothing so much as a lovely, woody rose in bloom, each petal separate and arranged with perfect, overlapping symmetry. She had collected one very like it, though not so flawless as this one, when she’d gone into the forest for Professor Snape’s conifer assignment. Surprise, excitement, and relief all bubbled inside her as she gazed at her gift, a pleased smile teasing at her lips. 

Suddenly she noticed a square of parchment peeking out from under the foliage. With great care, she drew it out of the box and unfolded it.

 

_Thought you would appreciate such a perfect specimen. Just don’t eat the berries. They can make you pretty sick. Ha ha._

At that, Hermione rolled her eyes, laughing softly.

_Good colour for Valentine’s Day, though. Talking of which, I’ll be in Hogsmeade at Madam Puddifoot’s around noon tomorrow. Her hot chocolate is legendary, even though it comes at the price of all those revolting cherubs and their pink confetti. Care to brave all that and join me?_

_DM_

 

He was saying sorry. That’s what this gift was about, really. Sorry for being a wanker, for taking advantage and trying to steal what was hers. Sorry for all the mean remarks and the hurt. Just... sorry. And thanks. He’d already said it twice, but she sensed that gratitude was an implicit part of this as well. And there was something more besides, the sudden realisation causing a pleasant little attack of flutters in her stomach and rosy colour to bloom high on her cheeks. _He’d just asked her out._ He hadn’t regretted kissing her – far from it, in fact. She knew that now for sure, and suddenly, she also knew why.

She looked up, her cheeks still pink, to find Draco standing several feet away. He’d just stepped out from behind a tall bookshelf, and now he watched her quietly, intently, a small, rather shy smile he couldn’t seem to help quirking the corners of his mouth. Hermione felt her heart lift.

‘Wonderful tradition, Valentine’s Day,’ she thought, and the smile she gave him in return was dazzling. ‘Not stupid at all.’

 

 

 

 

 

[](http://s136.beta.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/Dramione%20fic%20photos/5a6686c4-c0b4-4de1-ac1c-c11abef9fc53.jpg.html)[](http://s136.beta.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/Dramione%20fic%20photos/f4b410e4-d34b-4b2f-9d5c-2a2549e3d9d1.jpg.html) [](http://s136.beta.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/Dramione%20fic%20photos/6186100281_21ffe18fa7_z.jpg.html)  
young female Scots Pine flower (l), mature female cone (centre), and Yew berries and foliage (r)

 

 

 

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Deepest thanks to my lovely beta, mister_otter, for unfailing moral support and for the unerring instincts that I rely on!


End file.
